“PERTAINING ESPECIALLY TO DECORUM”
The first two weeks of Virginia’s life at St. Helen’s passed without a
cloud. The hours were as golden as the October days themselves. She
and Priscilla liked each other better every day. She had already
become acquainted with many of the girls at the other cottages, and
she found them as jolly and merry as those at The Hermitage. She liked
them—almost every one—and although at first her frank way of speaking,
and the strangeness of her accent had puzzled and surprised them, they
liked Virginia. Of course, all things accepted, they might have
preferred being born in Massachusetts to Wyoming, for to many of them,
as to Grandmother Webster, Wyoming seemed more or less of a
wilderness, and a ranch rather a queer kind of home, but they had the
good sense, and better manners, not to announce their preferences to
Virginia; and as the days went by they liked her more and more.
Wyoming might be a wilderness, they said to themselves; but this
ranch-bred girl certainly was as cultured as any girl at St. Helen’s.
So the letters which Virginia wrote almost daily to her father were
very happy ones, and she almost began to doubt the possibility of
being homesick in this beautiful place. Still, there were many weeks
yet to come!
Her studies, with Miss King’s help, had been pleasantly arranged; and,
thanks to her book of compositions she had brought, her wide reading,
and her year of Algebra in the country school, she found herself, to
her great joy, ranked as a Sophomore, and in classes with Lucile and
Vivian. She liked Vivian very much, and tried hard to like Imogene for
Vivian’s sake. As for Lucile, she found her interesting in a queer
foreign kind of way, for Lucile’s French father, and her years in
Paris and Lausanne, had given her ways hardly American. Besides,
Virginia agreed with Dorothy, she would like Lucile for Miss Wallace’s
sake alone; for Virginia, as the prophets had foretold, already loved
Miss Wallace with unswerving loyalty.
Two more different persons than Miss Margaret Wallace and Miss Harriet
Green would have been hard to find, especially housed beneath one
roof, and presumably dedicated to the same ideals. Miss Wallace was
young, enthusiastic, and attractive in appearance and personality;
Miss Green was middle-aged, languid, and unattractive, certainly in
appearance, and, as far as one could judge, in personality. Both were
scrupulously conscientious, but Miss Wallace enforced the rules
because she loved the girls, and Miss Green because it was her duty.
Moreover, Margaret Wallace, remembering her own recent college days,
trusted the girls before she suspected them; whereas Miss Green
reversed the proceedings, and watched them closely before she decided
to trust. The result of these different methods may be imagined. The
girls obeyed Miss Wallace, because she never expected them to do
otherwise. If they obeyed Miss Green, it was done unwillingly to save
trouble.
Be it said to Miss Green’s credit that she was an excellent teacher.
The colleges which the St. Helen’s girls entered, expected and
received girls whose training in Latin and Greek was unexcelled. She
had been ten years at St. Helen’s. Perhaps her superior teaching and
her unshaken faithfulness to duty, more than offset her failure, which
she herself did not perceive, as a disciplinarian. However that might
be, the girls at St. Helen’s did not love Miss Green.
Virginia, being a new-comer, resolved to like her; and to that end she
really strove, being the one girl in The Hermitage and often the only
one in school, who defended the teacher, whose strict adherence to her
own interpretation of duty brought with it sad mishaps, often for the
girls and sometimes for herself. Even Mary, who was Miss Green’s
helper, though she did not say much at the indignation meetings of the
other girls, quite clearly did not like Miss Green.
“I think it’s sweet of you, Virginia, to stand up for her,” Priscilla
announced one evening, as they wrestled with extra hard Latin lessons,
“but your time hasn’t come yet. I hope you’ll always be able to like
Greenie, but I have my doubts.”
“Well, I’m going to try hard, anyway. Of course, I shan’t love her—I
don’t hope for that—but she seems so left out with us all loving Miss
Wallace so much, that I’m going to try.”
“That’s just what I thought when I came last year,” observed the
experienced Priscilla. “But after she just the same as accused me of
borrowing the down-stairs ink-bottle and never returning it, I
couldn’t like her any longer.”
Whether Miss Green liked the gray-eyed Western girl, who was trying so
hard in the face of so many odds to like her was not as yet known.
Perhaps she was slowly deciding whether or not Virginia might be
trusted; and very soon events were to come to pass requiring that
decision to be made.
The two halcyon weeks of October passed, and the shortened days began
to grow colder. Already there was a touch of November in the air; and
the girls were beginning to prefer to spend the half hour after supper
around the open fire than out-of-doors. On Friday evening of the third
week of school, there being a shorter study period of from eight to
nine o’clock, they stayed later than usual, talking of various
subjects as they sat on the floor around the open fire. Among other
things they spoke of their “vocations” in life—each painting in
glowing colors the ideal of her life-work. Mary was going to teach,
and she already had her pattern, she said shyly, not venturing to look
toward Miss Wallace out of courtesy to poor Miss Green, who sat
opposite. Anne, who loved nothing so well as “doctoring” the girls
when they would permit, would be a Red Cross nurse, bearing cheer and
consolation wherever she went, like Mrs. Browning’s “Court Lady,”
though she should wear a uniform instead of satin. Dorothy would go on
the stage and charm young and old, like Maude Adams, her idol, and
never take part in any but up-lifting plays. Lucile longed to have a
villa outside of Paris, and help poor American students, who had come
to Paris to study art and had been unfortunate and unsuccessful. She
had seen so many, she said. They were so pathetic; and she would give
them encouragement and a fresh start. Priscilla said with a little
embarrassment, that since every one was telling the truth, she must
admit that she dreamed of being an author, and writing books that
should inspire the world; and Virginia, who sat by her, all at once
squeezed her hand tightly, and said that she longed to write also.
Imogene “hadn’t decided,” and Vivian made them all laugh by saying she
wanted more than anything else to have a home for orphan babies and
take care of them every one herself.
Miss Wallace and Miss Green listened, the one with sympathetic, the
other with amused interest. Neither of them spoke until the girls had
finished; and then Miss Green, feeling that perhaps it was her duty to
declare that dreams were fleeting, said,
“You must be careful, my dears, that unlike Ibsen’s ‘Master Builder,’
you can climb as high as you build. Dreams are very well, but I have
lived long enough to discover that one’s vocation in life is usually
thrust upon her.”
“Horrors!” cried Dorothy. “Then I won’t have any!”
The others were silent, all conscious of a dampening of enthusiasm.
Miss Wallace stirred a little uneasily in her chair. Virginia, being
honestly interested in Miss Green’s observation, and feeling
intuitively that some one should speak, broke the silence.
“Was your vocation thrust upon you, Miss Green?” she asked politely.
“It was,” returned that lady, a little icily, the girls thought, but
Virginia mistook the tone for one of regret.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “You can’t be half so interested in it as
you would be if you could have chosen it. If I were you, I would
change, and choose another.”
An inadvertent giggle from Imogene broke the embarrassed silence which
followed Virginia’s remark; and led Miss Green to mistake Virginia’s
honest interest for ill-bred sarcasm. She gathered the gray knit
shawl, which she often wore, more closely about her shoulders, rose
from her chair and left the room, saying in a frigid tone as she went:
“Will you come to my room, Virginia, immediately upon the ringing of
the study-bell?”
“Why—certainly—Miss Green,” stammered poor surprised Virginia.
“Mean old thing!” muttered Dorothy, as a slam of Miss Green’s door
announced her complete departure. “Virginia didn’t—”
“Dorothy,” warned Miss Wallace quietly.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Wallace. I forgot.”
Then Miss Wallace tactfully turned the conversation into other
channels, but Virginia could not enter into it with any interest. She
could not think how she had been impolite. Such a thought had never
entered her mind. Why had Imogene laughed? She caught Priscilla and
Mary looking reproachfully at Imogene. Even Dorothy seemed annoyed.
The study-bell put an end to the forced conversation, and as Virginia
went slowly toward Miss Green’s room, after encouraging pats and
squeezes from the girls, who left her to go up-stairs, Miss Wallace
asked Imogene to remain a few moments with her.
Virginia found Miss Green still in the gray shawl, and more icy and
forbidding than when she had hurried from the room.
“Sit down, Virginia.” Virginia obeyed, sitting on the couch.
“I must ask you to come nearer where I can see you more closely.”
Virginia came nearer. Miss Green cleared her throat.
“I feel it my duty, Virginia, to talk with you. I am, indeed, sorry to
be obliged to reprimand you so soon after your entrance in the school.
I cannot understand your rudeness of—”
“But, Miss Green,” Virginia interrupted, because she could not help
it, “really I—”
“Do not add to your impoliteness by interrupting. Allow me to finish.”
Virginia stammered an apology, her cheeks flushing painfully, her eyes
bright, her heart rebellious.
“Will you explain your rude suggestion as to my change of occupation?
Will you attempt to justify Imogene’s giggle? It all looks to me like
a contemptible conspiracy! Now, you may speak.”
But for a long moment Virginia could not speak. Had she been at all to
blame, she would have burst out crying; but the injustice of it all
made her angry and too proud to cry. She choked back the tears which
were blinding her eyes, and tried to swallow the lump in her throat.
Miss Green waited, the epitome of wounded patience. At last Virginia
spoke, and she spoke frankly, for she had not been in school long
enough to know the meaning of diplomacy.
“Miss Green,” she said, “I think you are very unjust. I felt sorry for
you when you said your vocation had been thrust upon you. That is why
I said I thought you would be happier if you changed. I don’t know why
Imogene laughed; but I think you are suspicious to think of a
conspiracy. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do not add impertinence to the list of your misdemeanors, Virginia.”
Miss Green was becoming angry—calmly so, perhaps, but angry.
“I do not mean to be impertinent, Miss Green. I—I—have been trying
hard to like you”—her voice quavered and broke—“but I think you are
unfair to me.”
Miss Green’s eyes and mouth opened simultaneously. She had never
dreamed of such frankness in a pupil brought before her for a
reprimand! She fidgeted uncomfortably in her chair. Perhaps, this
interview had been long enough. It did not seem fruitful.
“Do not try to like me, I beg of you, Virginia. You seem to find it
hard work. But I tell you, as I tell all my pupils, the day will come
when you will be deeply grateful to me for my correction.”
In her tumultuous heart Virginia doubted the arrival of that day of
gratitude. She waited for Miss Green to finish.
“We will grant, perhaps, that you may not have meant rudeness. I will
give you the benefit of the doubt. But we must admit that you were
hardly decorous in your remarks. Have you anything to say?”
Suddenly into Virginia’s’ mind there came an idea—so quickly that she
smiled a little, greatly to Miss Green’s discomfiture.
“Yes, please,” she answered in reply to the question asked her. “I
can’t seem to think. What is the noun for ‘decorous’?”
Miss Green’s eyes and mouth again widened, this time in greater
astonishment. Evidently, this interview was not producing the desired
change of heart. It would far better be ended. She cleared her throat
again.
“The noun for ‘decorous’ is ‘decorum.’ I am sorry my words have had no
greater effect. Goodnight.”
“Of course, it’s decorum” said Virginia, as she went toward the door.
“How foolish of me to forget! You’ve really given me a brand new idea,
Miss Green. Good-night.” And she went upstairs, leaving behind her a
puzzled and almost angry woman, whose knowledge of having done her
duty was in some way quite eclipsed by a strange, yet indisputable,
sense of having been badly beaten.
Study hour was in session when Virginia hurried through the hall
toward her room; but two doors noiselessly opened as she passed, and
four hands extended notes, which she took wonderingly. The door
opposite her own did not open. In her room, Priscilla, instead of
studying, was writing furiously in her “Thought Book,” which,
apparently unread, had been sent two weeks before. As Virginia came
in, she jumped up from the desk, and threw her arms around her.
“You poor, dear thing!” she cried. “We’re all furious! You didn’t do
one thing but be polite. We’re more furious at Imogene for giggling!
That only aroused Greenie’s suspicions. What did she say? Was she
awful? I’m so glad you’re not crying. You got the notes, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Virginia, returning the embrace. She read the notes. All
expressed a mixture of fury, loyalty, and sympathy. Then she took down
her own “Thought Book,” for she had also begun to keep one, and placed
the notes carefully between its pages. Priscilla watched her, puzzled.
Most of the girls were crying with rage when they came from Miss
Green’s room. Virginia opened the back part of her “Thought Book,” and
separated some thirty pages from those before. Then she dipped her pen
in the ink, but before writing, turned to Priscilla.
“Priscilla,” she said slowly, “she is a very unjust woman. I think she
is very nearly a cruel one. I shall _never_ try to like her again!”
While Priscilla watched her, more puzzled than ever, she began to
write in large letters on the first of the pages thus separated.
“‘ALL TRUE WISDOM IS GAINED ONLY
THROUGH EXPERIENCE.’”
“These pages will contain accounts of wisdom-giving
experiences, and will pertain especially to matters
of Decorum.”
“Experience I. Oct. 18. I have learned that the most careful
politeness may be called rudeness. Also that Pity is _not_ akin to
Love, even though the Bible says it is. Also, that remarks, intended
to be polite, about one’s vocation, had best be avoided, especially
when it is previously known that one’s vocation has been thrust upon
her.
“Why these things are so,
I don’t pretend to know.”
She closed the book, and replaced it in her desk. Afterward she sat
for a long moment watching a crescent moon sink below the horizon.
“Are you going to study to-night, Priscilla?” she asked at last.
Priscilla turned almost fiercely upon her. “I shall fail in Latin on
Monday and Tuesday, _anyway_,” she said, with unreasoning loyalty,
“and maybe on Wednesday, and I’m not exactly sure about Thursday. I
know it will hurt _me_ and not _her_, but it doesn’t seem as though I
could ever get a good lesson for her again.”
At nine there was an indignation meeting in their room, which every
one attended, except Imogene and Vivian, and at which Virginia, though
the center of attraction, said little. She appreciated their loyalty,
but somehow she could not talk. It had all surprised her too much. But
the others could talk. The room hummed with their vehement
whisperings.
“It just shows how suspicious she is!”
“Never mind, Virginia. It’s no disgrace to you.”
“It’s really Imogene’s fault. Why did she giggle like that?”
“Do you suppose it could have been on purpose?” Courageous Anne
ventured to give voice to a suspicion which, except for Dorothy,
seemed general enough.
But Dorothy, though annoyed at Imogene’s thoughtlessness, which had
caused trouble for Virginia, was loath to believe that it had arisen
from anything but thoughtlessness. To speak truly, Dorothy was
fascinated by Imogene—her wit, money, clothes, and, above all, by her
air of wisdom, and her “don’t care” ways. Therefore she defended her
hotly.
“Of course it wasn’t on purpose, Anne!” she said indignantly. “Imogene
wouldn’t do such a thing!” But the silence which followed seemed to
show that all did not share Dorothy’s confidence; and Anne, growing
more courageous, said:
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“I’d like to know what Miss Wallace said to her.”
“So should I.”
“She was plain mad when she came up-stairs, for she slammed the door
like anything.”
“Yes, and I heard her give Vivian fits for having the window open.”
But Imogene kept her own counsel, and no one knew what Miss Wallace
had said. Neither did they learn that night from Virginia of her
interview with Miss Green. Her strange silence during the conference
quelled the curiosity which prompted them to ask; and, when the
nine-thirty bell rang, they went home, feeling that she was queer some
way but that they liked her more than ever.
The world had suddenly lost its brightness for Virginia. She undressed
in silence, and was in bed before Priscilla, who sat on the edge of
her cot a moment before going to her own, and hugged her room-mate
sympathetically. Virginia returned the hug with a bear-like one of her
own, and kissed Priscilla good-night, but still she could not talk.
Neither could she go to sleep. Long after Priscilla’s breathing showed
that she had forgotten indignation and all else, Virginia lay awake,
choking back a great, obstinate lump of homesickness, which would rise
in her throat. She longed for her father. He would understand as no
one else could. She longed for Don, who would call Miss Green “an old
prune.” Most of all she longed for her own big country, where, her
poor injured heart told her, people didn’t look for impoliteness. And
just this morning she had been so happy!
Then the tears came, and she sobbed into her pillow. “I’m not plucky
at all,” she thought, “because I _am_ homesick, and I don’t care if I
am!” She felt better after a good cry, and thought she could go to
sleep, but the room seemed warm and close, though the windows were
open. She got out of bed, put on her kimono, and went to the French
windows which opened upon the porch. The moon had set, but the sky was
clear and star-filled. Unhesitatingly she opened the doors and stepped
out. From where she stood no trees obstructed her view of the campus.
The buildings stood dark and dim among the trees. It was so still that
she could hear the brook falling over the stones, half a mile away.
She felt better out there under the sky—somewhat as she felt among the
mountains at home.
All at once she heard steps on the gravel walk. Who could be out so
late. A bulky form emerging from the firs and coming along the walk
below where she stood answered her question. It was Michael, the old
night watchman. Were it not for fear of disturbing some one she would
call to him, for she liked his funny Irish ways, and already they had
become good friends. She went nearer the railing to watch him as he
walked slowly toward West Cottage, and as she moved a board in the
floor of the porch creaked.
Michael looked up hastily, and descried her figure. He had been too
long at St. Helen’s not to know that young ladies on porches at
midnight usually meant mischief, and he hurriedly retraced his steps
toward The Hermitage, rounded the cottage, and—truly Fate was
unkind!—rapped on Miss Green’s instead of Miss Wallace’s window.
So perfectly innocent was Virginia that she did not for one moment
connect Michael’s return with herself. Miss Green’s room was on the
other side of the cottage from her own, and she could not hear
Michael’s quiet warning. Therefore, she was surprised and not a little
startled when she found herself five minutes later enveloped in a
strange light. She turned around quickly to see in the doorway Miss
Green, clothed in a gray flannel wrapper, and armed with a miniature
search-light, which always accompanied her on her night journeyings.
Virginia felt a strange desire to laugh. Miss Green’s scant locks were
arranged in curl-papers about her forehead; she still wore her
spectacles; and the combination gave the sinister effect of a beetle.
But the look on Miss Green’s countenance checked the unborn laugh.
“What are you doing here on the porch at midnight?” Miss Green’s words
were punctuated with pauses of horror.
“Something inside of me said I’d feel happier out here, Miss Green.”
Virginia’s honest eyes looked into Miss Green’s shrinking ones. Miss
Green apparently felt uncomfortable. She wrestled again with that
disagreeable sense of having been beaten. Slow as she was to perceive
honesty, she could not doubt this girl who faced her with flushed
cheeks and tear-swollen eyes. She stood aside, shivering in the night
air, to let Virginia enter her room. Then she followed her. Once
inside, she hesitated a moment, then locked the French windows, and
slipped the key into her capacious pocket. Virginia’s unwavering eyes
watched her. She cleared her throat nervously.
“I need hardly remind you, Virginia, that it is highly indecorous for
a young lady to stand on a porch at midnight in a kimono! Moreover,
let us ever avoid all appearance of evil.”
Then she went. Virginia heard her padded footsteps stealing down the
stairs. Priscilla had, fortunately, not awakened. Virginia was too
surprised to be angry. Had it really happened, or was it just a dream?
She tried the French windows to make sure. They were securely locked.
Then she laughed as she remembered Miss Green’s curlpapers and
spectacles and horrified expression.
She felt better after she had laughed. Perhaps now she could go to
sleep. But not yet! She suddenly remembered her “Thought Book.” This
evening had been rich in new experiences. She did not venture to turn
on the light. That might be indecorous at midnight. But, kneeling by
the window, she traced these words by the dim light:
“Experience II. One need hardly be reminded that it is highly
indecorous for a young lady to stand on a porch at midnight in a
kimono. Moreover, let us ever avoid all appearance of evil!”
Then she crawled into bed and fell asleep.